


Not About Angels

by ClawsVanity



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Bittersweet, Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jughead is dead and is tasked to kill Betty as part of a fucked up ritual, Mentions of Suicide, a ghost story with a twist, bughead is cute, core four and Cheryl fluff, light jarchie because why not, originally posted in 2017, repost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClawsVanity/pseuds/ClawsVanity
Summary: After a series of suicides at Riverdale High, Jughead Jones comes to a peculiar realisation. His all together, well rounded classmates with prosperous futures ahead of them hadn't taken their own lives; they’d been murdered. Cheryl Blossom, Veronica Lodge and Archie Andrews. Dead.Unfortunately for Jughead, he only manages to uncover the truth after his own unexpected departure from Riverdale High’s rooftop, and life itself. Upon uniting with the already deceased, Jughead learns that he too has been chosen to partake in the sinister plot; and he’s forced to get a grip on his new reality when he learns just what his part in the afterlife is. Like the others, he must continue the chain, and has to murder another unsuspecting classmate, Betty Cooper.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones, Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Not About Angels

**Author's Note:**

> wth archie!

* * *

Death was not beautiful. Sure, some dead flower on a blog or an abandoned museum being eaten up by mother nature was a grim aesthetic but death; real soul-snatching, gut-grabbing, heart-hammering death… it was gruesome.

Except, that wasn’t the case at Riverdale High; every death that had taken place over the past year had been picture-perfect. Their deaths had been tragic and spellbindingly beautiful; their bodies used a canvas, a way of telling a story like someone was photo shooting stolen youth. Maybe that was why they came back, and thus began the vicious circle of murder. Though it wasn't murder, per-se, because you had to physically be alive to commit such a crime, right? Then again, ghosts are supposedly born out of tragic ends right? Who knows what they could do.

It had started Junior year, the death that set off a chain reaction that wouldn’t stop. It was Cheryl Blossom, having reportedly slashed open her wrists in the girl’s bathroom. Then, three months later, Veronica Lodge, another pretty socialite not expected to kill herself. She was found in a similar way to Cheryl. People said it was a copy-cat suicide; that Veronica Lodge had seen how....fascinating Cheryl’s death had been and then done it to herself. Kid talk.

The experts were pulled in, and they put it down to poisonous social media, rotting the brain’s of teenagers. Even TV shows. There was always a suicide storyline somewhere embedded in the CW, or Freeform. But nobody except from Jughead, at that point, wondered _why_. Cheryl and Veronica had been the most popular girls at Riverdale High. They had boy’s worshipping them, lost in a spell, triggered by their beauty. From all perspectives, they appeared to have the perfect high school lives. Jughead couldn’t fathom what would push either of them to suicide. They both seemed so _happy_.

People argued, however, when parents and kids alike pointed out that you can hide behind the brightest smiles, yet still be broken, slowly splintering, falling apart inside. So Cheryl and Veronica’s deaths had been announced as teen suicides, and that one word was buzzing around everyone’s mind over the following weeks; _why._

Four months later, Archie Andrews, a well-known junior Bulldog, had thrown himself from the top floor of Riverdale High. Surely, just surely, someone would speak out. Say that Archie would never do something like that. But it was true. It had been only a few months after Veronica and Cheryl had tragically ‘taken’ their lives, and RHS was still reeling. It had started as a stream of teens rushing to last period, eager to get the day over with. They practically flew downstairs, a cacophony of yells and excited squeals from girl’s and boy’s alike. And that’s where they found him. That’s when the chatter had turned to nervous whispering, and the laughter had resorted to high pitched screeching.

Archie Andrews had been lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the staircase. Upon close inspection, of course while screaming and crying, grabbing their friends, as if _that_ would help, most of the crowd came to the same bitter conclusion at once. Archie was dead. He’d hit the ground head first, his skull caving in on itself. The boy’s red curls were stained a revealing crimson, as a dark dribble of blood slowly made its way down his scalp, sliding down his forehead. He had been wearing his iconic letterman jacket, the collar getting progressively more and more damp and red as his blood soaked into the material.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Archie had fallen from the top floor. Though the thing is, you don’t just _fall_ from the very top floor. There were strict guards, stopping that very tragedy from happening. No, he hadn’t fallen. Archie Andrews had climbed over the railing and chucked himself down six stories. Now of course, that couldn’t have happened. Like the others, Archie was happy. He wasn’t depressed or suffering from anything. He had just been granted an early scholarship to a college of his choice. He couldn’t have killed himself, it just didn’t make sense; he’d never see that red-head so much as frown. Despite everything Andrews had to live for it, the depressing truth was still there. A lousy quality CCTV footage captured the moment Archie Andrews had climbed over the railing, blindly stepping from the balcony, before toppling, flailing, to his death. Most of the teachers, upon seeing the footage, had been sick.

It was strange. Just like Cheryl and Veronica, his body had been found- modified. Messed around with. Like someone was playing a sick game. Archie’s head had been propositioned so he was staring directly upwards, his arms spread out, as if he had wings - and it wasn’t just Archie. Veronica too had been found as if she had been participating in some kind of gory Shakespearian play. She had been slumped against the faucet in the girl’s bathroom, her dark-hair swimming around in rose coloured water as her head bobbed limply. There was something about the girl’s olive skin contrasting with the deep scarlet trailing down her arms.

It was eerily similar to Cheryl Blossom.

Cheryl Blossom’s death was something, but the way she was found? It made people realize that they weren’t normal deaths. They weren’t what you could call a ‘normal’ suicide. Because these kids weren’t just killing themselves, they were also making it beautiful. Which was both baffling and disgusting.

Cheryl was pretty much queen of Riverdale High’s Sophomore year. She was head River Vixen; a force to be reckoned with. She was a turbulent wind blowing everyone off of their feet. A constant reminder that you were beneath her, beneath her family; the Blossom’s, one of the most powerful bloodline’s in Riverdale. She wasn't supposed to die.

Her name still carried, however. Of course the Blossom family business went on without her.

Blossom. Once Cheryl was dead and buried, her name no longer meant power. It didn't mean money or riches, or her family’s name. No, Cheryl Blossom has officially been nicknamed The Crimson Girl. Since her death had been so out of place, so unexpected. So Red. Her funeral had been held a few weeks later, with the stern order from her parents, that there be no red roses, no cherry blossom, and absolutely, no trace of the colour red on any item of clothing.

So, when she was found in the girl’s bathroom with scarlet wrists and no heartbeat, her death had been announced as a suicide. Cause of death had been blood loss, from the deep cuts on both of her wrists but there had been no knife, no razor, no sharp object. Cheryl had been found slumped over the sinks. The faucet had still been running, gushing cool, clear water.

Aesthetically, it was beautiful. The perfect image, a pretentious photographers dream. A girl with skin as white as snow, lips as red as her own blood staining her arms, the hem of her dress. The way her hair had seemed to die with her, a claret halo protecting pale cheeks. There had been photographs, of course. It was a crime scene. The girl’s bathroom had reportedly been dripping with Cheryl Blossom’s blood. It had decorated the mirror, had been splashed against the porcelain walls like paint. A witness, some freshman girl who had to go to therapy for a year, had told everyone she came into contact with, through a deep throated and hysterical laugh, that she had seen invisible hands dancing in the mirror's reflection as Cheryl’s blood flew around, tainting everything a dark crimson red, which ironically matched the cheerleader’s iconic crimson hair she was known for.

Eventually, the death’s stopped. RHS had gone five months without a suicide, and kids were starting to relax, starting to forget about the lost ones. But it wasn’t suicide, and it took Jughead his own death to realize that.

The moments leading up to it were a blur in his mind. He only recalled standing on the edge of the high school roof, and letting the soft breeze blow his dark hair from his eyes. He had only been trying to get clear-headed, since foggy incoherent thoughts had been bugging him all day. It didn't help that he had been sleep deprived. But no matter how hard he tried to put that down to the reason why he fell, it still felt _wrong._

Jughead remembered falling. He remembered toppling from the edge of the roof, that three second panic striking him in his chest when he was suddenly falling backwards, his arms flailing as he dropped six stories. But he didn't remember turning around, before he fell. He had been sure he had faced the edge purposely, so he could feel the wind on his face, the damp air as it swirled and danced, playing with locks of his hair. But apparently he had been falling backwards, as if he had turned for a single second, before losing his footing. Though that's not what you think when you're falling to your death. Jughead found there was nothing to think about because he was going to die. He knew how far up he had been, how the impact with the ground, which was getting closer and closer, would crush his skull, burst his brain, and kill him.

_Obviously._

Jughead expected darkness, as well as the deep abyss of nothing, of complete and utter nothing to swallow him up. He expected to lose his self-awareness, his thoughts, feelings and memories. He never felt the impact. Well, he did. He just wasn't alive long enough for it to hurt. Which was a relief. He didn't want to feel his own skull breaking apart, his blood leaking from every orifice. It didn't take him long to realise he was dead. He had awoken, curled up into the foetal position, as if being born again, on the concrete where his body had landed. At first he had been at loss for words as he stared down at, well...himself. He was in shock, that's what it was. Part of him wondering how exactly he was dead, while the other part, the childish and slightly at-that-moment loopy, part of his brain whispered, almost excitedly;

‘ _Wait… is this the Afterlife?’_

Though he quickly came to realise after being dead for a few minutes, was that hell, he didn't want to be dead. And then the hysterics came on, slamming into him like an icy wave as the sudden feeling washed over him. Agony. It wasn't pain, it was a sadness he’d never felt before, a feeling of hopelessness that was brewing in his gut, weighing down on his chest.

_Dead._

He had mouthed the words at first, his lips felt...wrong. All of him felt wrong. He sensed it was like walking on water when he bothered to move. His whole body felt like it had been wrapped in candyfloss. He was dead - he was _really_ dead. He wondered, for a fleeting second, if he could float. If he could fly. Though those thoughts diminished when Jughead finally came to the conclusion, that he was…

It didn't feel right thinking it, never mind saying it. At first he had simply sat on his knees and stared at himself. At his own broken body lying in a heap on the floor.

And then he had screamed at nothing, and then everything. At the speechless crowd of onlookers. Students and staff alike. Though there had been people yelling at them to keep back, kids still pointed their phones and flashes lit up the misty grim afternoon that it had been. Jughead had been crying, stumbling around trying to regain his footing.

‘Stop!’ he had cried, throwing himself into the crowd, grasping at kids, punching and hitting and kicking them until he landed on his knees, sobbing into the ground. He made no impact with reality. He was an imprint of the boy, crumpled on the ground. No matter how hard he tried to punch the grass, the dirt, even himself, pounding on his own chest. He never succeeded in connecting with anything. He didn't want to look at the body, at… his body, but he found he had no choice. He was lying on his back, eyes closed peacefully, lips pressed into a sweet, slumber smile. He didn't want to know why he had died smiling. Some people might say, upon seeing his body, that he was at peace with himself, finally. But that wasn't it. He hadn't intended to die, to have his life cut short so quickly, so viciously.

 _He didn’t do it._ He knew that automatically.

‘Can we please get back!’ Mr Wetherby had been a mess trying to disguise himself as an authority figure, when really, seeing a teenage boy lying in his own blood really wasn't doing anything for him.

He had resorted to pushing nosy kids away, himself. But nobody could deny it, apart from maybe Jughead himself, at that moment. Because looking at the scene, the way Jughead Jones had looked like an angel, with his arms spread either side of him, his sooty black hair contrasting with his deathly pale skin, as well as the crimson puddle that seemed to embrace his body on the concrete, like the ground accepted his death.

Wetherby had been at loss for words. Because once again a kid had killed themselves, at least from his point of view. And Jughead’s body, like the others, had been arranged as if he had been a doomed hero in a decades old novel or play. His arms spread out like wings, the small smile on his lips. Upon noticing this, kids started to whisper a name.

‘Archie Andrews...’ the boy’s name was suddenly in everyone’s heads, on everyone’s lips. Even Mr Wetherby had seen a resemblance. His death had been _just_ like the doomed jock’s.

Though just like the others, everybody had already come to the same conclusion, like it was programmed into them. The phase ‘copy-cat’ was thrown around at the press-conference, and it was confirmed, finally, that he had done the impossible. That he too, like Archie Andrews, had soared from the roof of RHS. As if trying to fly. Maybe that’s why his arms were spread like wings.

 _Suicide._ Sheriff Keller had announced later that day, in a very strained voice. Jughead Jones had committed suicide. Which wasn't a shock to anyone, really. Over the last year, three kids, now four including his now damned soul, had each killed themselves completely out of the blue. There had been a cheerleader, a jock, and a princess. Some kids, with sadistic sense of humours, had penned them The Dead Breakfast Club.

And now they had a new member. The Outcast. Jughead had never really wanted to fit in. He had considered himself a weirdo, an enigma. Someone who didn't really want to have friends. He preferred to sit in Pop’s and lose himself in his novel. Although now people were starting to remember that he was quiet, that he never talked to anyone. In fact it has taken a little while for people to actually remember who he was.

‘Jughead Jones?’ Kids had questioned. ‘You mean that loner kid who had like, barely any friends?’ So that's what Jughead was now. He was the fourth suicide, the most recent member of The Dead Breakfast Club.

_The Loner._

Once his body had been taken away and the police tape surrounding the scene had been wrapped up, the crowd dispersing back to their lives- Jughead found himself wandering the corridors of the now empty school. Time passed feverently in his mind, and before he knew it, his death was no longer the top story at Riverdale High. He didn't do what you would expect him to do, which was try and move on, move to the great beyond. Heaven. The Pearl Gate. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Jughead simply lay on the ground, curled up next to his locker where flowers people had taped to the metal, were starting to rot. Their petals, curled and black were still sellotaped to sticky notes decorating every inch of his locker. They read, scrawled in gold felt tip. He had tried to rip the stupid memorial away, attempted to claw at the photographs of him surrounding memorial cards. He hated it.

 _RIP Jughead Jones._ Notes read, signed by kids who didn’t even know him. A little piece of him appreciated the memorial somewhat, but it all meant the same thing. They all thought he had taken his own damn life which was bullshit! He knew, even post-death, that even if he had been stressed out with work, as well as writers block with his novel. Even with his dead-beat father slowly drinking himself into an early grave. He knew none of that would drive him to throw himself off of Riverdale High’s roof.

He was scared of death, for God’s sake. The very thought of suddenly losing touch of reality, of his own self-awareness, had terrified him. Though he had come to realize, even when he died, that he didn’t have _time_ to be scared. Because it had been fast.

Eventually Jughead, surprisingly, had actually became bored of being a ghost. If that was even possible. Though his days were timeless. On a Monday, he supposed, because Reggie Mantle, a classmate he knew from most of his classes, had performed the same damn routine after every football practise.

So, it was a Monday. His mind reminded him. He stopped sulking around with his head resting in his lap, face hidden by his matted curls. He hated that that’s how he would forever look, now. He could still feel the blood sticking to his forehead, printed around his right eye. In the middle of the usual school bell, Jughead had slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t ache, and he didn’t need to stretch. He didn’t even need to yawn. Jughead didn’t exactly have a path, or a destination. He only made his way down the emptying school corridor, letting his fingers trail along the line of lockers. He felt something ignite inside him, once he heard the tune as his fingers traipsed over the rough metal. There was a melody as he thrummed his fingers down the lockers, the noise becoming progressively louder.

For a second, he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. He was actually touching something. Making contact with it. He’d never felt more alive.

* * *

It was some kind of Tuesday when he saw her at the end of the hall, dressed in the infamous blue and yellow uniform that Riverdale High enforced their students to wear during gym. He knew it was Tuesday because Kevin Keller stopped by his locker after band practice like he’d done every Tuesday since. Though how many Tuesday’s had passed since his death? He had stopped counting.

‘Betty?’ Kevin had been picking at the dead petals still sticking to Jughead’s locker, and for some reason, it had infuriated him. _‘That’s my locker.’_ He muttered. Though he knew Kevin couldn’t hear him. The boy only ignored him, of course. He leaned against Jughead’s locker comfortably, as if it was _his_. Jughead rolled his eyes. ‘I’m right outside third period history,’ The boy giggled. Jughead found himself envying him. The way his chest rose and fell, his laugh, his breath escaping his lips every time he let out speech. Though Kevin was some kind of company. Even if he was irritating as hell. ‘Yeah, uh-huh. I’ll get that printed out for you,’ Kevin murmured into his phone, and then softer, losing his smile. ‘Be careful, okay? This school is haunted, I swear.’

Jughead tried to ignore him, irritated that he was unable to decipher why the kid kept coming; it’s not like they’d been friends. Still, he watched the Sheriff’s son walk away, forlorn that the moment had passed already; he didn’t want to be alone.

Then she’d appeared. Alright, not so dramatically- she’d walked round the corner. At first Jughead thought he was seeing things, ready to put it off as a rogue student sneaking some extra cheer practice in before lock-up but as she began to pace up the corridor towards him, he saw her features.

The second he saw her, once again he felt a streak of envy as he noticed the girl wasn’t covered in blood, like him. In fact she looked pretty damn alive. Her cheerleading uniform had been in an immaculate condition, no traces of what had once soaked the startling white and yellow material.

‘Veronica,’ he said out loud, speaking for the first time in weeks. His voice sounded the same, he pointedly ignored the fact that other people could hear it before his untimely date with the sidewalk. Veronica stopped, she gazed at him with an expression that haunted him. As ironic as that what, her sadness was truly unnerving. Jughead got to his feet, regarding the girl with seriousness as he approached her. ‘You can see me, right?’ He asked, wondering if he really was just seeing things. Veronica stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. Jughead was going to ask again but then she nodded, slowly, as though thinking about her every movement with immense caution. ‘You didn’t move on either,’ he said, relieved. He wasn’t alone.

‘There is no moving on, Jughead,’ she whispered, averting her gaze. ‘We’re all stuck here.’ Jughead shuddered at her voice, she sounded so hopeless; so, dare he say it, dead.

‘We?’ He asked, momentarily forgetting that it wasn’t just he and Veronica who had taken their lives at the very school. Veronica’s eyes flickered, causing Jughead to turn around. He jumped at the sight of Archie, standing only a few metres away. ‘Jesus. Dude, you scared me.’

‘Boo,’ Archie replied, his tone humourless but his lips curled slightly all the same. Jughead moved so that they were standing in a triangle, all able to see one another clearly.

‘We’re all stuck here,’ Veronica whispered, repeating herself. Jughead and Archie glanced at one another. ‘All of us, forever.’

‘But there’s always a catch,’ a sudden voice murmured. He felt icy breath in his ear then, a voice carried by a none-existent breeze. At first Jughead was convinced he was hearing things.

‘Always so dramatic, Veronica.’ The voice chimed once more and Jughead automatically recognised it. He jerked his head when Cheryl Blossom quite literally appeared directly in front of him, and he couldn’t help taking a few staggering steps backwards. Cheryl was, like Veronica, also free of bloodstained clothes. She simply wore her short raven coloured dress and was barefoot. Cheryl was as beautiful as ever. Her lips stretched into a scarlet grin, her blood-red hair cascading down her back.

Though she wasn’t looking at him, Jughead realized. The girl was staring at Archie, who was glaring right back at her. ‘Archie!’ she said sweetly, her voice sounded like wind-chimes gracing Jughead’s ears.

Veronica was quick to step in. ‘Cheryl.’ She hissed through clenched teeth shooting a warning glance at Riverdale’s own Crimson Queen.

Cheryl ignored the raven-haired girl however, and her head snapped to Jughead for a single second, a playful smirk curling on her lips.

‘Did you apologise to Jughead, yet?’ she asks the red-haired boy, and Archie only stared at the ground. Jughead couldn’t help realizing that unlike the girl’s, Archie Andrews was still noticeably smeared scarlet. If you looked close enough, you could see dried blood on the collar of his letterman jacket.

‘Apologized for what?’ Jughead found his voice. Though he still felt the prick of anxiety swirling in his stomach, his gut turning over. He was feeling. It was fear. Igniting his dead lungs once more as he suddenly lost the ability to breathe. It shouldn’t have been like that. He was dead. How could he feel?

Though Cheryl Blossom had been quick to pop that particular thought bubble floating in his mind. ‘What do you mean, what for?’ she giggled, and Veronica put her head in her hands. Archie was silent, still finding remarkable interest in the linoleum tiles they all stood on.

Cheryl cleared her throat, tired of playing games. ‘Alright, Jughead, here’s what happened.’ She said, and before he knew it, Cheryl Blossom was wrapping her arm around him, as if cradling him.

‘Okay, so first thing’s first, I was murdered.’ Cheryl said. And she said it so casually both Archie and Veronica looked like they were fighting back a scoff. Though Jughead knew all of it already. ‘I’m not stupid,’ he growled, tearing himself from the girl’s embrace. ‘I know what happened.’

Cheryl only rolled her eyes. ‘Oh honey, you don’t know the half of it.’ She said softly. Then; ‘I was murdered, so I killed ‘My Specialty is Ice.’ Over there.’ She pointed to Veronica, who had ducked her head, her dark hair hiding her face. ‘And then!’ Cheryl continues. ‘Ronnie pushed Archiekins from the top floor,’ she rolled her eyes at the two of them. ‘Because what says ‘I have a crush on you’ more than pushing him six stories to his death?’

‘This is cruel.’ Veronica whispered. Though Cheryl only grinned. Her tone sweet and sultry. ‘Oh Veronica, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy turning Archie Andrews into your own personal angel.’

Jughead’s head swam. _That’s how he had been found. He recalled his own limp body lying on the ground. His arms spread out to mimic those of angel wings._

‘And who have we got left?’ Cheryl’s tone grew more excited, snapping him out of it.

Veronica and Archie had stilled, and both moved at least a few centimetres away from each-other. Archie wrapped his arms around himself, bowing his head of scruffy ginger hair, as if in shame. ‘Cheryl.’ The boy was pleading, his voice breaking. ‘Please don’t do this.’

Lastly, Cheryl smiled at Jughead, and if he had a heart, it would have jumped out of his chest. They hadn’t been suicides. He felt a cold shiver creep down his spine. They had killed... _each other. Except Cheryl Blossom. She really had been murdered._

He sent a quick panicked gaze to Archie, because he craved some kind of confrontation. Archie or Veronica shutting Cheryl up, before she ripped his world apart. Except Archie wouldn’t look at him, and Veronica’s straying glance had been one of sympathy, her lips slowly mouthing the words:

 _I’m sorry_.

Cheryl cocked her head and smiled sadly at him. She suddenly looked sincere after having her bit of torturous fun. But she wasn’t done yet. The words seemed to gush from her mouth and hit him, and he was experiencing his death all over again. Except he was back on the roof, back alive. He could feel the wind once again attacking his hair, numbing his lips. He had turned for a second, just to coast the rest of the sky. He’d been smiling, embracing the cool afternoon air gracing his skin.

And then- a flash of red. It had been so fast, just at the corner of his eye. The sudden movement had made him dizzy, and he’d found himself drunkenly stumbling backwards, and then he’d felt a presence slam into him. He’d tried to regain his footing but there was no longer solid ground beneath him. It was only the air, once again attacking his face. But more violently, more feverishly.

And then suddenly, there was the swollen sky. He was staring up at it, but it was getting progressively further and further away, plummeting away from him at a rapid pace. And it took him a minute to realize. 

He was falling.

Cheryl Blossom’s voice still echoed in his mind, as he relived his last moments once more.

‘Can you guess how you died, Jughead?’

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted in 2017 but hey, if you guys want more, I'd love to delve back into this :')


End file.
